Then Along Came You
by cbarreto
Summary: Claire Carraway is a novice journalist seeking recognition in the male dominated society of Central City. Her goals to pursue a credible story lead her to the young, infinitely famous, and recently retired Military Alchemist: Edward Elric. Without her intention, she becomes caught between two worlds: the roaring 20th century Feminist Movement and an Alchemist's journey. [post plot]
1. Introduction

**AN: **Can't believe I've somehow became re-interested in an anime/manga I finished so long ago. Like, more than five years ago, I believe. (I never watched brotherhood, since I finished the manga) Anyway, not sure how interested anyone will be, being that this is a post plot-line story, and will obviously be more down to earth. I guess some might call, realistic? Eh, I guess i'll find out.

Please enjoy and don't hesitate to leave a comment, critique, ect. :)

* * *

**Introduction**

* * *

"Alright, I think I can tell you everything now. Will you listen?"

A spring breeze gathers delicately around us, swaying the tall country grass to tickle my knees. The young man sporting the customary fashion of suburban wear relaxes further against the base of the tree. His golden eyes briefly sway to the rolling hills beyond a few farmhouses, aged and almost bending with the subtle wind. Yet, his stare seems to pass the scenery, as if gazing into a place where I could never see, or so much reach. It is the very same look that brings me here to the peaceful East fields of Resembool in this early morning. Far from the city fog and confusion which I have been accustomed to.

A strand of brown hair laces around my cheek, and I brush it away before taking up my moleskin journal and pressing my ink pen against its fresh pages.

"I would be more than happy to listen, Mr. Elric," I smile.

There is a pause between us, then a chuckle from my company, "I've told you not to call me 'Mr.' You make me sound ancient—like my dad, or something." His bright, sunny hues crease against my own, green and receptive, "Just call me 'Ed', or 'Edward' if you're that uncomfortable with being so casual with me."

"Oh, right. Sorry Mr.—" I catch myself before making the same mistake twice. I swallow my reflexive need to be polite and modest with my clients. "Edward, would you mind starting from the beginning? As to why you became an Alchemist."

"Oh boy, now that's a question," he blows the words from his mouth. "Where to even begin…" he mumbles to himself, scratching the back of his neck in thought. "When I was really young, my dad had a lot of these Alchemy books in his office. He actually spent more time reading them than anything else. He wasn't the best family man back then, and I wasn't interested until he had left my mother, who had been sick for…well, who knows how long, really."

I notice a perceptible hesitation in his delivery, and I lower my journal, "Is it too much for you to talk about your childhood?"

"No, it's not like that. It's more of the fact that so much has happened, there's a lot to talk about," he admits, sending me a look of reassurance. Then, it transform into a humble grin, "It's funny. No one has really wanted to just sit down and let me talk their ear off about myself."

"I find that hard to believe," I admit. "Who wouldn't want to talk with the renowned Fullmetal Alchemist?"

The blonde gentleman shrugs his shoulders, "Sure, people want to talk to me, but it's always about pointless shit anyway. Sorry for my language."

"You don't have to censor yourself, Edward. There would be no sense in omitting anything you say, since everything about this story is about _you_."

"That's right, I keep forgetting." He laughs, flashing his set of white teeth. "Still can't wrap my head around it. Anyway, back to what I was saying…"

o o o

And so it happened that on a windy day in Central City, after my habitual breakfast of milk tea and Eggs Benedict, I entered the Central News Building. The commotion was always expected in these forms of establishments, where columnists were complaining to staff writers, who were then somehow negating their frustrations to unsuspecting photographers on scene.

Hallways stretched with world famous clippings of news articles published by the corporation, proud with an exceptional lineage of producing top quality information to the public. It was during these times when I took luxury in gazing with hopeful eyes that maybe, one day; I could be amongst the journalist hanging so proudly.

I would keep these thoughts with me, especially when entering my coordinator's office, who was head of the Journalist committee, and an equally respected journalist himself. The only fault in this man, which restrained me from idolizing him, was his tactless misogynistic ideals.

"Carraway, what the hell took you so long?" My boss's speaking voice, a gruff tenor, was something that made others beside myself want to feign deafness. He went on to say, "Sit down," and I did what I was told. He gestured with his hand; "Go ahead, missy. Explain."

"Sir, I believe I'm early," I gave my reply.

"No, I'm not talking about right now. I'm talking about a few days ago," he went on, striding to his desk to place himself on top. Without any inclination that I might have had asthma, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and proceeded to light one, before stuffing it back into his pants pocket.

"Remember the model I told you to interview, who was supposedly having sexual relations with one of the government officials here at Central?" I nodded, and he took that moment to huff and puff a string of smoke, which I had to quietly bathe in. "Yeah, well, I got a call from her manager, saying that you were late to the interview, which made 'Miss Pretty' late for one of her photo shoots. So, I'll repeat myself again, which I hate doing. Why were you late?"

"They refused to let me enter Ms. Dulan's residence on the account that I didn't appear to have any sense of 'style', therefore lacked any appreciation for Ms. Dulan's work." I spoke, clean and concise as I could. "I was able to convince them to permit me after rushing to buy a copy of Ms. Dulan's Summer Swim Suit Catalogue."

"What the hell were you wearing?" My boss scuffed, his eyes flashing restlessly at me.

"I went to the interview with the same attire that you see me in almost everyday, sir," I said.

"Hm. No wonder," A bored tone surfaced, along with another cloud of dense tobacco smog. "Listen to me, Carraway. This can't happen again. I've been tolerant with your otherwise widowed fashion sense, but if you want to be taken seriously, you need to slap on some heels. At least _try _to look more appealing, then maybe, you'll be more appealing, and I can give you a raise."

He pinched the cigarette butt out from his mouth, "This company recognizes effort, Carraway. Remember that." The hissing sound of the cigarette resonated loudly in the office as it met the ashtray, "you can leave my office now."

I had left that office in great stride, utterly exhausted, and the day had just begun. The remainder of that heavy day which left an impressionable mark, had made me wander to a bar after work in attempts to sooth myself (although I'm not fan of drinking, ironically.) In retrospective, the night I attempted to become an alcoholic for a span of 5-hours revealed the location to my saving grace.

A grace with only a metal leg left to uphold his former name, but I soon realized, that was far from the case.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Meeting**

_"...a girl could study and learn, but she could not do all this and retain uninjured health, and a future secure from neuralgia, uterine disease, hysteria, and other derangements of the nervous system,"—Dr. Edward Clark,__ Sex and Education__, 1873._

* * *

My family have been well-established sort of people, ever since my grandfather took his last and only penny and invested in the stock market. It was a gamble that followed after the Ishvalan War, when it was thought that there would be little else the economy could take from him. Somehow, by miraculous miracle, that coin prospered into millions of other countable coins. I never so much knew my grandfather, but it was said that it was because of his dangerous financial wager that my father had been able to acquire his University education, marry my mother of old-fashioned money, and provide me a privileged life.

With much fight, I had graduated from St. Bell, a private woman's college, with a restricted two-year degree in Creative Writing and Journalism in 1920. It was much to my parent's dissatisfaction that I did not have the intended major of "Domestic Science". After drawn out conversations at the dinner table, the end conclusion that my father would rehearse endlessly was clear; _"Claire, education is beneficial to all sorts of curious people. But how do you suppose you will find a good husband who would much rather you write him a book, than raise his children properly?" _

I had to repeat to myself under countless of these wasted talks that my father was a good man, with good intentions for me. It was notable that the emotions of the time suited the social gap between men and their expectations of women.

I spent many nights after graduation staring at my bedroom ceiling, contemplating my father's words, and how job opportunities were slim to none for ordinary educated girls like me. I was lucky to have been offered a job at the Central News Building after months of continuously relying on my parent's finances. I was reluctantly happy. I was only given the job under the pretense that more city woman would want to steal their husband's wallets to purchase the daily paper, on the notion a woman of their kind had provided only an insignificant portion to it. It was a clever action, which was supported in the company's private poll of gender consumerism only a few months after my employment.

"They don't even care what information you bring," I sighed a poignant breath, taking another detached sip from my vodka and tonic.

At the bar where I had escaped to, I sat quietly upon a stole, mumbling pessimistically to the wide-eyed girl I claimed to be. It was the sole reality that much of my clients were those appointed to me, not one's I sought out by choice. All topics I seemed to cover where of little importance; such as ridiculous gossip, affairs, fashion trends—possibly all the things in the world that would describe the "interest of women". Anything of social, economical and political importance remained in the hands of those "more qualified"—possibly those who did not have to squat to use the restroom.

Amid my less than sober thoughts, the low and coarse voices of two men next to me caught my ears.

"Hey, did yah hear?" The man insisted from his drinking partner. "A State Alchemist buddy of mine told me he came back from Xing not too long ago."

"Really? How long was he there for—almost a year, right?"

"Yeah, just about, but that isn't the only thing," the inebriated man continued, taking a courageous swig of his beer before slamming it down on the lacquered bar top. "They say he retired, right out of the blue. Makes you wonder."

"Man, that's disappointing," the other added, gazing absently at the ceiling. "I'm sure he learned all sorts of, eh—Xingese Alchemy or whatever. Too bad we'll never get to see it."

_Retired? _I thought to myself, what luck to come across a retired State Alchemist, who had traveled to the country of Xing and back. I was impressed by what petty information was spoken at the right of my shoulder. If I pursued it, it would surely lead me to an impressionable travel story, if not more.

"Excuse me," I leaned towards the gentlemen in eagerness. "Do you mind telling the name of the State Alchemist you are referring to? And where I might find him?"

The two men seated next to me turned, fixing curious eyes at me. A reserved quality took over them, and without hesitation, I was met with their backs as they reestablished another conversation.

"Why do you wanna' know, missy?"

A husky voice to my left grabbed my attention, and persuading my chin to follow, I was met with an older man staring sternly at his whiskey on the rocks. It took me a moment to reply, and with an embarrassed movement, I scrambled for a stray business card inside my purse.

"I'm a journalist," I said, gesturing for the man to view it. He took no notion of doing so, which forced me to continue, "I work for the Central News Building. I was hoping to interview this State Alchemist for a story or two." A silence followed, and I had hesitated to even bother furthering this conversation, "Do you know him?"

"Not personally," his rough voice came again, after a congested cough. Taking up his glass with a gloved hand, the sleeve of his coat slipped to his wrist, revealing a peculiar glint. I squinted, and no doubt, it was not a watch.

The man finished his gulp and heaved a hearty breath, ridding the metallic gleam as he settled his glass back against the bar.

"You look like a nice enough girl, so I'll tell yah," he said, not bothering to gaze at me. With a finger, he wagged it back and forth, urging me to come closer. I did so, leaning far enough where I could smell hours of drinking cling to his aging skin, "Your gonna' take a train to Resembool. There, look for a dwarf old lady by the name of Pinako Rockbell. Find her and you might find him."

I nodded, quickly taking up my moleskin journal and pen from my purse. I scribbled feverishly while the information remained hot in my thoughts.

"Thank you so much," I said graciously, before gathering my things to head home for the night.

"Good luck, Ms. Journalist," he grinned with the tip of his head.

o o o

My apartment was on a floor that was neither too high, nor too low. The view from my kitchen window was an intimate one, where I could see most walks of life parade like a silent film just across the street. The early mornings and late nights were always the most fascinating parts of the day—times where people were at their most vulnerable. When the sun woke, so would the mother in her nightgown, paying no mind to the loose pins flaying out her hair, as she would breast-feed her infant. Yet, when the sun went down, the mother was a vision to her husband, worthy of all the affection any man could ever hope to give.

As a journalist, I have always had this uncontrollable habit of placing my nose in the affairs of others. Sometimes, it was a devilish predisposition to be as curious as I was. Where during a restless night or two, I would drink tea and stare out my kitchen window some more, only to blush for watching a couple passionately caresses each other. I would be lying if I said I looked away immediately.

It was such a small apartment, fit for a single young woman with my salary. Everything about it was small, which was not complimented by all the furniture and needless knick-knacks I would collect and store. If I ever had guests, I am sure they would say my home could pass for an antique shop. Which was funny, since nothing I owned was of any value.

Although I was an avid opportunist for adventure, I was largely a homebody. Knowing I would be distant from my apartment made me miss it even more. The feeling was present when on an early Sunday morning; I decided to seek out the State Alchemist I wanted to interview. I boarded the 6:00 a.m. train from Grand Central Station, out to the simple countryside of Resembool, Amestris. I rested my eyes aboard the several hour ride. When I came to, the train reeled with a labored cough at the Resembool train station.

As I stepped off the train and onto the station platform, I took out the slip of paper with the information I had gather the night before. Looking up, my sight glazed the emptiness of the station, filled with only the chugging of the departing train behind me. I thought best to make my way down the only dirt path away from the station. I was soon met with a rattling truck crunching its way towards me from the horizon. I waited patiently for it to each me before I waved it down, and kindly asked the driver if they had any knowledge of the contact name.

"Excuse me, sir." I smiled, while bringing a hand to shade my eyes from the rising morning sun. "Would you happen to know of a woman by Pinako Rockbell?"

"Sure do," the driver answered, casually leaning an elbow outside the rolled down window. With a turn of his stubble chin, he tipped it in the direction North of the trail. "What cha' wanna' do is head down this here road, see. 'Bout a half a mile or so, yer gonna' take a right at the next intersection. Dr. Rockbell lives in the first house to yer right."

"Thank you, sir." I said politely.

"No problem, miss." He grinned, revealing the gaps in his teeth. "You have a good day now."

With that, I smiled and waved at the gentlemen as his truck sputtered away. Continuing down the rocky path, I kept close to the field grass to allow tractors to pass without trouble. Following the driver's directions, I was able to find my way to the described house. Out of hesitation, I looked at the contact paper and up at the quaint two-story house, white fenced and all. Taking careful steps up the porch, my hands met the front door with an equal thoughtfulness. I had barely made any noise, and insisted with a few more knocks, deliberately louder than the firsts.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," came a raspy voice from just behind the door.

As it began to open, I quickly straightened out my long skirt just in time. My sight lowered, and was graced by a significantly small elderly woman, with a ponytail sprouting from the top of her head. Her dotted eyes crinkled at the sight of me behind her spectacles, as she brought out the pipe from her prune lips to exhale a long drag.

"Can I help you?" Her question came frank, which surprised me a little.

"Oh, yes." I spoke after a pause. "Are you by chance Pinako Rockbell?"

"Mhm. I am," she acknowledged me with a firm nod, pinching the end of her pipe between her lips. "Is there business you'd like to discuss? If you're here as a 'walk in', then you're out of luck. I'm backed with appointments till the end of the month."

"No, nothing of that sort," I replied, waving my hand dismissively in the air. "I was actually hoping to ask if you knew where I might find a certain retired State Alchemist. I was informed more or less that if contacted you, I would be able to meet him."

The sagging woman by the name of Pinako Rockbell squinted her already beaded eyes against me, blowing out another cloud of gray, "And what if I did know where he was? What do you want with the man?"

"Um," I felt a trickle of nervousness brought on by the tangible suspicion in her tone. I quickly managed to pull out my business card from my purse, and placed it in her hold. I held on to my purse strap for emotional support, "I'm a journalist at Central. I work for the Central News Building, to be exact. It would mean so much if I could interview him for a story or two."

The aged woman had taken no more than a second to inspect it before jutting the card back into my possession.

"I don't need your card, and I'm certainly not interested in giving you any information," she spoke firmly, folding her arms crossly in front of her. "You know, you're the third 'journalist' to come by my house, and I'm going to tell you the same thing I've told them; get off my property." The door had begun to close in front of me, "and don't come back."

Before I could manage any words, the front door was slammed shut, causing me to flinch. It left me unsettled, and I kept staring in a stupor at absolutely nothing but the white paint finish. I brought it upon myself to inhale a calming breath, and released it as a defeated sigh. I thought perhaps it was slightly rude of me to have come unannounced. I was mostly accustomed to those types of scenarios, since my work catered to burrowing into people and subjects of all private matters. Perfectly closed doors in my face were not anything unordinary; they were actually quite common.

I paced myself purposefully down the porch steps, not wanting to be pressed with charges for trespassing. As my flats touched the gravel of the front yard, a black and white dog came bounding from around the house. With its tongue flapping to its side it approached me cautiously, sniffing at my heel.

"Well, hello there," I said, bending down and lifting the back of my palm. Its wet nose pressed against it, "Your owner doesn't seem to like me very much. I hope your willing to be a bit kinder," I smiled, lifting my hand and petting it softly behind the ear.

It barked and wagged its tail, pawing at me with its makeshift leg, which I presumed to be automail.

The hound pranced away, stopping a few yards away to look back at me. Its nose pointed towards the back of the house, wagging its tail as if inviting me to play. As I lifted myself from my knees, I debated the repercussions of my prolonged stay. However, even after being rightfully turned away, it would have been such a waste to leave immediately. Like I have been told many times, I had a knack of putting my nose where it sometimes didn't belong.

"Okay, I'm coming," I said with a laugh, following the dog as it circled me and bounded in its desired direction.

Following towards the back of the house, I paused in my steps, spotting a figure buried underneath a pick up truck. Around the stranger were sprawled out toolboxes, misplaced ratchets, and spots of oil littering the hardened dirt underneath.

Amid the clanking and tightening sounds erupting from underneath vehicle, the dog hopped around the working area, whining and howling for the person's attention.

"No, Den. I told you, now's not a good time to play fetch," a gentlemen's voice came, muffled by the two-ton car hovering above him. A gloved hand reached out, blindly searching the ground, "Why don't you help me out and pass me the bigger looking wrench around here."

I peered at the dog, which returned by simply settling itself comfortably on the ground and gazing at me with an open mouth. I decided to do the request myself and padded over to the area, picking up what appeared to be the 'bigger looking wrench', and bent down to place it in the mans possession.

"Is that the one?" I asked.

"Yeah, perfect," the stranger spoke, cranking what he had to do. It took a few moments for the stranger to fully notice my presence, and when he had finished, he pulled himself from under the car.

I blinked against a pair of bright golden hues, which stared up at me with apparent shock. His sunny toned hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and protected by a bandana. His chin tilted in the direction of the dog, and returned to me with narrowed, speculating eyes, "you're not Den."

I was most certainly not a four-legged furry companion.


End file.
